


Drain the Ocean

by athena_crikey



Category: Hameln no Violin-hiki | Violinist of Hameln
Genre: Angst, Dal Segno, Gen, Grief, PTSD, Raising the Dead, past demons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27864650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Dal Segno is a graveyard of a country, and Trom and Hamel don't deal well with graveyards. Flute and Raiel go on a trip, and she discovers that neither does he.
Relationships: Flute & Raiel, Hamel & Raiel
Kudos: 1





	Drain the Ocean

Dal Segno is a graveyard of a country. Flute knows from Trom that the capital is a ghost town now, its people massacred by the mazoku in their homes and streets. But as they pass through the rainy farmland on its border, they find no signs of life there either. The mazoku covered the whole country in a black cloud, it seems, and left nothing behind when they withdrew. Nothing alive, at least.

It has rained constantly since they came to the border lands, but after stumbling across the first outpost village two days ago, they’ve stayed away from the inviting shingled roofs and thatched cottages. Flute had never seen so many corpses, never seen blood clogging gutters and squawking crows and ravens fighting over wet messes in the streets. And the smell – a dark, choking smell that made her gag until she could taste the bile at the back of her throat, and _welcome_ it, willing it to overpower the suffocating stench. 

It was – awful. Beyond words – the most awful sight she had ever seen, so awful that she could feel her eyes refusing to take it all in even as she scanned the streets to simply stop her breaking down. But she still dealt with it better than Trom, who collapsed in a trembling, screaming heap until she dragged him away. And she has a terrible, sharp-edged fear that she took it better than Hamel, who was swivelled away by Raiel almost as soon as they entered the village and pushed swiftly out again, Raiel’s free hand tipping Hamel’s hat down so far over his eyes that the brim brushed his nose. No one’s spoken about it.

They’re walking in the rain now, boots soaked and slipping on the muddy ground. It’s been pouring for days, the clouds overhead so dark noon is hardly distinguishable from dawn – the whole day passes in a grey haze. The plants and trees are beaten down with it, bowed low and sodden towards the ground, and the dirt road has been churned into a nearly liquid slurry. Raiel, carrying the golden piano on his back, sinks in ankle-deep with each step. Their heavy winter clothing kept out the water for hours, but it’s all soaked right through now and will take a fire and shelter to dry out. And it won’t get that, because no one wants to stop in this graveyard of a country.

Flute is tired. Is exhausted, really, steps getting heavier and heavier as she tries to keep up with Hamel and Raiel’s longer legs. Trom is nodding every now and then, slumping down in the middle of the road before she or Oboe shakes him awake; she’s already given him two piggy-backs, and she knows she can’t manage a third. Raiel has dark shadows under his eyes, and is walking in a stiff march that wastes no energy. Hamel hasn’t slowed or turned around for hours. 

“We have to stop soon,” she tells Oboe when he swoops back to check on her. “Everyone’s hungry and exhausted. It’s been hours since breakfast.” She doesn’t have to tell Oboe no one has slept well for the past two nights, if they slept at all under the nearly-useless tarps they pitched. The crow was awake every time she looked over, watching Hamel. 

“Is there any food?” Oboe, perched on her shoulder, looks smaller and more vulnerable than usual. The rain has slicked his feathers down into a wet mess wrapped tightly around his thin frame. He can hardly fly anymore, just swoops the short distance from shoulder to shoulder looking miserable.

She shakes her head, tugging on the straps of her backpack and feeling the lightness there. “Not enough. A little for lunch, maybe, but then we won’t have anything for dinner. We were counting on the last village for supplies,” she finishes, in a whisper. She’s the only one not burdened by heavy luggage, and she can’t carry very much. They usually stock up every few nights. But it’s been four days since they replenished supplies, and they’re getting down to herbs and old wrinkled fruit. “We need to stop in a village, but…”

But no one wants to face it.

They hand out the remains of the food, just a few old apples, some rock-hard heels of bread and a greasy smear of butter, under a large oak tree. Trom falls asleep with the bread still in his mouth; Flute clears it away but doesn’t wake him. No one speaks.

  
***

They’re all stretched thin, twisted and wrenched nearly to the breaking point. It’s only a matter of time before something snaps.

Unsurprisingly, it’s Trom. Dinner-time comes, lingers, and passes without their stopping. The sky is shifting from grey towards dark when he simply sits down in the middle of the road, cross-legged, and glares.

Flute, last in the procession, is the first to notice. “Trom! What’s wrong?” Out of the corner of her eye she sees Raiel turn, a glint of gold in the dusk. 

“We’re stopping here.”

Flute places her hands gently on his shoulders. “Trom, it’s the middle of the road. We can’t stop here.”

“I’m not moving. I’m not.”

“I know you’re tired, but –”

“This is stupid! We’ve been walking for days in this stupid rain with no food and our stupid clothes’re soaked and even the stupid tarps don’t work, and –” He’s beginning to choke up, face reddening. There are circles under his eyes, too, black panda rings. He’s trembling, too, under his sopping clothes. Flute feels her heart twist.

“Trom, just a little –”

“And stupid Hamel won’t even let us take a break. That bastard isn’t even waiting for us.” He points, and Flute turns to see that it’s true, Hamel hasn’t stopped. She glances at Raiel, who’s come back to stand beside them – he’s looking after Hamel too – and then back at Trom. 

“I’ll go talk to him, Trom. We’ll stop soon, I promise.” She glances again at Raiel and catches his eye this time; he nods.

“That’s right, Trom. We’ll try to set the tarps up better tonight, too. Maybe we can find a better camp site – you could help with that. You’ve got a lot of camping training, don’t you?” Raiel takes over cajoling the young prince, and Flute gives him a tired smile before jogging after Hamel. 

She doesn’t have the energy to run; instead she stumbles forwards until it’s just the effort not to fall flat on her face that keeps her moving. Hamel, when she catches up with him, is staring off into the rainy distance. The horizon here is all mountains, which are bright blue and white in good weather but now just grey like everything else. Nestled around the corner of the road she can see what she thinks may be the roofs of a town, but she’s not about to look hard enough to be sure. 

“Hamel. Hamel, stop.” He doesn’t even look at her, and as she steps closer she sees that his eyes are slightly unfocused, staring like a corp – sleepwalker. She moves to stand in front of him and puts her hands on his shoulders. “Hamel!”

He blinks and looks down at her. There’s an instant of surprise, and then irritation takes over. “Flute? What the hell –”

“We need to stop for the night. Trom can’t keep going – none of us can keep going. Everyone’s exhausted and starving.” She points back towards the other three; Trom is still sitting in the middle of the road, but his expression is at least less stormy now as he listens to Raiel and Oboe. Hamel stares at them for a few seconds, expression calculating. 

“Che.” Finally making a decision, he shrugs out from under her hands, but turns and starts back towards the others. “And how much food do we have left?”

“None,” admits Flute, quietly, staring down at the ground. 

“So what’re we going to eat then? Oboe stew?”

Flute glances over her shoulders; looking harder, she can see that there are roofs a little way in the distance. Food and dry wood. And who knows what else.

“There’s a town ahead,” she says with a forced smile, as they reach the group. Her hands are fisted so tightly in her pockets that she can feel the individual nails digging into her palms. “I’ll go and get some food.”

Beside her, Hamel stiffens, and she knows abruptly that he wasn’t staring off into nothing before. That he was staring at what was coming up in the distance. And just as abruptly she knows why he agreed to stop now without any argument. He lets the fear linger on his face just an instant too long. 

“You should start getting the tarps set up. I’m too short to do it properly anyway,” she says.

Bizarrely, he still looks undecided. She opens her mouth to give another stupid excuse, but Raiel beats her to it.

“Ah, good idea, Flute-chan. I’ll go too; I can give you a hand. We should get a lot of supplies.” Raiel straightens up from bending over Trom, wincing slightly as the piano shifts. Flute gives a sigh of relief – out of all of them, Raiel seems to be handling this the best. He’s the only one she would think of bringing.

Hamel’s expression shifts from undecided to its usual irritated. “Fine, leave us here to do the hard work. Come on, Trom.” He kicks the boy in the back, and heads towards the closest set of trees. Trom blinks, but staggers to his feet after a moment.

“Come on, Flute-chan, before he changes his mind.” Raiel taps her on the shoulder and then turns to head off down the path. She follows after one glance back.

  
***

It’s a quiet walk; they’re both too tired to talk. And, she thinks, neither of them want to get where they’re going. Dread isn’t conducive to idle chat.

The village really isn’t far at all, not even half a mile down the road. But as soon as she turns the corner and hears the utter silence in the valley, she knows what they will find there. 

“You can stay here,” offers Raiel, as they approach the gate that marks the edge of the town.

Flute shakes her head. “I’ll come. Everyone – everyone else has already dealt with this.”

“That doesn’t mean you should have to,” says Raiel, quietly. “Places like this, they break people. Sometimes they don’t even notice how much until later.”

Flute remembers the weight of an axe in her hands, and suspects she knows what Raiel’s thinking of. 

“These people shouldn’t be forgotten. They deserve better,” she replies. But it doesn’t make it any better.

The days of rain have helped, somewhat. The blood has washed away, and the cool wetness has kept down the smell. But there is no avoiding the horror lying on every corner, on every street, and Flute walks through the village full of corpses with her hands over her mouth and tears running down her cheeks. 

They enter the first store they find. The door is locked; Raiel breaks the window with his elbow and reaches through to unlock it. Here, at least, there are no bodies – clearly the storekeeper was out when the mazoku came. They take what they need from the shelves, filling Flute’s backpack and a second bag tight with carefully packed layers of supplies. She agonizes about leaving money, eventually deciding not to. The food doesn’t belong to anyone anymore, and she can do more good with the money. It still hurts.

They circle around behind the store into the back alleys, looking for a supply of firewood kept under a dry roof. They find a stack eventually, and fill up their second spare bag with it. It’s a lot to carry, but it’s not too far and they need some warmth. 

Flute is just packing in the last of the wood when she hears something clatter behind her. Raiel’s hand on her shoulder stops her turning around. “Drop your bags and follow me,” he whispers. She slips her arms out of the straps, steps over the bag, and hurries down the alley after him. Glancing over her shoulder she thinks she sees a shadow moving past the entrance they used. 

They take the first turn out of the alley, walking quickly but still much slower than they would have usually. In the distance, she hears someone begin to laugh, only to be cut off. Raiel ducks down behind a water barrel and she follows him. “Mazoku?” she whispers. He doesn’t answer, just points. She peeks out from behind the barrel, and watches five tall wolf-mazoku strut across the street. One of them pauses beside the body of a woman and then, with a casual kick, disembowels her. Flute bites her fingers so hard she thinks they will bleed. 

Behind them there’s a quiet snuffling sound, and Flute turns. It’s coming from the mouth of the alley they left. She pulls Raiel out from behind the barrel, intending to slip into a house. But Raiel staggers as he tries to stand suddenly after squatting, and trips right into the barrels with a harsh cacophony of chords from the piano shattering the quiet. 

They move together, taking off in the opposite direction from the group of mazoku. The shoot past the alley – and Flute sees a dark shadow trotting down it towards them as they pass – and turn down into what looks like the village’s main street. She can hear a heavy panting behind her, and the heavy clattering of claws on cobbles. She doesn’t dare look back.

There’s a square up ahead with a wooden-sided well in the centre, surrounded by the largest houses in the village. At the far side is a church, its wooden doors hanging open. She makes instinctively for it, exhausted feet tripping over cobbles and fallen belongings, only her momentum keeping her moving. 

She enters the church first, lighter and faster, and then turns to pull the door shut after Raiel. There’s a whole squad of wolf mazoku outside, at least twenty of them, she sees in the instant before she slams the door shut and drops the bar over the metal brackets. Flute falls to her knees, gasping for breath, lungs and throat burning painfully. 

“How – how many are there?” pants Raiel, on his knees beside her. He’s already got the piano down from his back, is buckling on its support straps.

Someone starts hammering on the door, just with fists at first, and then the harder thuds of bodies being thrown against it. 

“Twenty, at least.” She pulls herself to her feet and backs away into the centre of the church. It’s lined on both sides by stained-glass windows. They will, she thinks, be very easy to break through. But she has Raiel. Raiel, who looks worried.

“Play the Firebird,” she says. And then, when he gives her an uncomfortable look, adds, “What’s wrong?”

He looks up at the thick stone walls and dusty, wooden rafters. “There isn’t enough room in here. He would set the church on fire. It would be like an oven; we’d be incinerated. And outside is impossible.”

She almost asks why, before she hears the rain pounding down against the roof. “Then the water spirits,” she says. “There’s plenty of water.”

“Yes, but no deep sources. If I call the water spirits from the rain, I’ll flood the church, and drown the whole town. They need to be in a river or lake, or even a large field. We’re in the dip of a valley here.”

The pounding on the door stops suddenly. Flute looks around at it, and then back to Raiel. She can’t hear the mazoku, but knows they must be circling around looking for other entrances. And they are plentiful. “There has to be something!”

He nods unsteadily. “There is.” 

Flute opens her mouth to ask what, and ten windows shatter inwards simultaneously. Ten wolves land inside the church, dripping wet and grinning to display long, white fangs. Flute steps back, until her back is against the church door. And beside her, Raiel begins to play.

It isn’t a tune she’s heard before. It’s harsh, almost discordant, and full of anger. In the stone church it echoes, amplifying the sound. Raiel’s face, she sees, is set in a hard look. It reminds her of his battle with Hamel – he isn’t taking any joy from this music, it’s almost as if it’s hurting him.

Behind her, the door creaks. Flute startles, and turns to look. It’s bending inwards, as if under heavy pressure.

“Open it,” says Raiel, without looking.

“But –”

“ _Open it._ ”

Flute reaches out with unsteady hands, as far away from the door as she can hold herself, and quickly pulls up the bar. The doors slam open, narrowly missing knocking her over, and grey mist rolls in through them. It’s thick in some parts and thin in others, so that she can see it moving. It doesn’t move properly, all at one speed, but in jerks and starts. As it comes into the church, she begins to see a pattern to its flow. And then, like print suddenly coming into focus under a magnifying glass, she sees what’s there. 

There are people in the mist. No – the mist is people. They become more and more distinct as they stride into the church, separating from each other to form a silent crowd. There are men and women, old people and young children. They walk right by her as if they don’t see her – they have eyes only for the mazoku. 

From under the harsh rumble of the piano, Flute can hear their voices beginning to whisper, then to speak. 

_“You.”_

_“You killed me.”_

_“You burnt my home.”_

_“You murdered my daughter.”_

_“You tore my husband’s throat out.”_

_“You.”_

_“You killed my family.”_

_“You destroyed us.”_

_“You murdered this village.”_

_“You tore my son to shreds.”_

_“You.”_

_“You destroyed our home.”_

_“You did this to us.”_

_“You did this.”_

_“You.”_

The ghosts, Flute sees just before she closes her eyes, are smiling cruelly. Then there is only screaming, and it doesn’t last very long. 

After another minute, the piano falls silent too. Raiel’s hand on her shoulder turns her around, and pushes her gently out of the church.

She’s crying, Flute realises as she stumbles away. She can’t feel the tears, can hardly even feel the choking tightness of her throat. She just feels cold.

Raiel takes her back to the store, leaves her there alone while he fetches the bags they dropped and brings them back too. By then, sitting alone in the corner on a stool that will never be used again, she can almost think straight again.

“You can raise human spirits,” she says, when he walks in the door, and sees the hurt written plainly across his face. “Those people…”

“They were the villagers here. Beethoven’s Funeral March summons unsettled spirits – people who died violently.” He speaks matter-of-factly, but he isn’t meeting her eyes.

“You make them fight for you, bring them back after what they – what they – after that –” she points outside, words and voice failing her together.

“No!” Raiel turns to look at her now. There is horror in his eyes, but shame too. “No, Flute-chan,” he says, more quietly. “I never have, until today.” And then, after a pause, “I didn’t learn the Funeral March for myself.”

“Then who?”

Raiel stares out the window for several heartbeats before answering, so long that she thinks he isn’t going to. “This place, it’s a lot like Anthem. A lot like my home. A lot like my home was, after Hamel destroyed it. We were the only two survivors, Flute-chan. A little kid, in a village full of corpses – full of the people you grew up with, _all of them_ , like that.” He waves towards the window. “It breaks you.”

“And sometimes you don’t know how much,” she says softly. She knows now he isn’t handling this graveyard of a country any better than the rest of them; he just has a better mask. Raiel nods.

“I know how to break myself. Which means I also know how to break Hamel. There was a time – a long time – when I thought it didn’t matter if I was hurt, so long as it hurt him too. So I learned the Funeral March, and saved it for him. So that Anthem could finish what they started.” He’s crying, she realises. The tears aren’t in his voice, but they’re running down his face. And then, so fast she doesn’t register it, he’s on his knees pounding his fists into the ground. “I was so _stupid_. I hated them – _hated_ them for what they did to him. But I – I…” he shakes his head wordlessly. 

Flute gets up off the stool, and crosses the floor. Kneels down beside him, and wraps her arms around him. “You didn’t do it,” she says. “You could have, but you didn’t.”

“I never should have thought it. Never should have learned.”

“If you hadn’t, we would both be dead.” 

He shakes his head, but straightens up and wipes his face. “You’re too forgiving, Flute-chan. Surviving something horrible isn’t an excuse to recreate it.” 

She wants to reach out to him, but she can’t find the words. Not with Anthem lying like a chasm between them. A chasm she’ll never be able to cross, not without living through it.

Raiel pulls himself to his feet with the help of the counter, and swings one of the bags over his shoulder. “I guess Ha-chan’ll be wondering what’s happened to us. We’d better get going before he forces himself to come looking for us.”

Flute gets to her feet slowly, rubbing away the last of her tears. “I don’t understand,” she says, happy for the shift in topic, “why if you both hate this so much you came and Hamel didn’t.” 

She almost regrets asking as Raiel turns to look at her, but she wants to know. Needs to know. Because there’s an ocean of things she doesn’t know about the two of them, and suddenly she feels like she’s drowning in it.

“I hate this place. I hate what it reminds me of, and I’ll see it in my nightmares. Ha-chan doesn’t just hate it. He’s afraid of it – afraid of what it will do to him. When I’m reminded of it, it hurts me. When Ha-chan’s reminded of it, he hurts other people.” He looks at her steadily. And Flute can hear Hamel screaming in his sleep, hear the nightmares that woke them all two nights ago and kept him awake all last night. 

“Don’t ever let that happen to him, Flute-chan. Anthem needs to stay buried.”

Flute swallows, and nods. Raiel gives her a wan smile, and puts a hand on the doorknob. He stands there for a moment, and then turns back. “I’d like to ask a favour. Even though I don’t deserve it,” he says.

She doesn’t have to hear it to know what it is, what it must be. “I won’t tell Hamel,” she promises. And then, more boldly, “And you _do_ deserve it.”

Raiel smiles politely and opens the door for her. She knows he doesn’t believe her, and probably never will. 

Flute makes the trek back to the others feeling more miserable than she had imagined she could; not even hot dinner cooked under the tarp, or the rain finally stopping cheers her up. 

It’s not until late that night, waking from an uneasy sleep under her still-damp blanket by the fire that she finally feels her heart beginning to unclench. Hamel and Raiel are sitting together on the opposite side of the dying flames, shoulder to shoulder. Hamel is dozing, slumping over gently onto Raiel, in whose eyes the soft flicker of flames are reflected. She knows, somehow, that if she wakes up again in a few hours it will be he who’s dozing while Hamel keeps watch. They share their nightmares, and now they share the watch against them. 

Flute doesn’t know how to make them not broken. But she can at least be glad that they have each other.


End file.
